Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
Exhaust
Setting: Occurs at the end of some war long after the events of Bleach.
The walk to Rukia's room was a vague struggle. A blurry test of endurance that went by in an instant, yet lasted a lifetime. Tōshirō couldn't count the number of times he snarled at the worried glances of those he passed. He was always too busy stalking away. But he was sure that more than a few of the bored fools that followed him down the halls placed bets on how many times they'd hear an infuriated curse bounce back at them.
Tōshirō passed a prayer room during his walk, and for reasons he couldn't fathom, he found himself slipping inside. He was greeted by tacky lyrics and disgruntled stares as soon as the door creaked closed behind him. The room reeked of incense and dust. It made his nose itch. The songs made his ears bleed. And the soft light from the candles did nothing to soothe his sight; it only made him question his already failing senses. He'd been wounded numerous times before, but the recent string of battles had left him unable to even tilt his head without a shot of pain spearing up his spine.
He quickly decided that he hated this place. It wasn't much of a revelation. But even though he felt like he profaned the ground he walked on, he trudged onward.
Tōshirō fell to his haunches in front of the smallest altar there. It was tucked away in a lonely corner of the room. A statuette of two gods he didn't know stood upon it. Their figures were entwined and lasting. He wasn't familiar with whatever faith this particular prayer room practiced, but thankfully, there was a plaque at the bottom that told him that once upon a time, this strange pair had been lovers during war. It conveniently left out which war, but he wasn't surprised. Thick vines had grown around the idol, turning it into a permanent fixture on the wall. Light flooded over it from a cave-in along the ceiling.
Like the rest of this quarter, this place was little more than ruins after the latest blood war. A hidden shrine long abandoned by the majority of its worshippers. The pews and altars that remained were all damaged; the rest likely sold over the years. The passage of time was unnoticeable here. The world stood still, undisturbed by the sins of men. Here, walls could break and hearts could be wrenched open. There were no witnesses. Only strangers, malefactors, and sisters. Most believed that they were blessed. Tōshirō knew better. Only the damned stood by him, unable to judge. Yet, they continued to stare in unabashed disbelief, unable to accept the fact that a man—a captain—as proud and as independent as him, in a mess of weary limbs and tired eyes, entered their holy ground with a look that would've made a beggar tremble in pity. Yet, dignity remained somehow.
It took years to properly kill pride.
Tōshirō's disappeared in an instant.
He reached for purchase, only to grasp air, as he caught himself on his palms. Tōshirō's forehead touched the ground in an act of pure desperation. His mind was filled with red. So much red. The stone's cool texture was a balm against the heat that he felt inside of him—just waiting to burst forth—and he screamed into it, unleashing the coil of steel and unease that knotted its way around his throat. Tears prickled along the edge of his vision. His fingers dug into what must've once been a priceless rug, before the candle wax ruined it.
But the only thought that graced him now was an imagined image of the Soul King, and his power to turn miracles into reality. Tōshirō wasn't a believer. Not a devoted one anyway. His faith was less stable than his temper. But here, just this once, he prayed. He didn't care that it wasn't the correct place of worship—a shrine was a shrine damn it! A real god would listen to him no matter where he did this.
He spilled his hopes into the stone, and he quieted that terrible voice in his head that commanded him to do more than he thought possible. He'd always been hard on himself, harder now because he'd reached his limit when there was still so much left to do. Everything he had once held in his grasp; everything he tried so fiercely to protect—was breaking. He couldn't even relish in Hyōrinmaru's guiding presence, drained as the dragon was. His sword's spirit slipped into a deep slumber days ago, and he hadn't heard from him since.
So, Tōshirō reached unknowingly for salvation. From what? He wasn't certain. But by the end of it, he felt a wash of disappointment drizzle over him. He swore his pride was wailing in a corner right about now, banging its head against a wall, trying to wake him up.
He was already awake though… and exhausted. The entire ordeal wasn't as eye opening as he thought it'd be.
But it was enough.
It was only after his throat tore itself raw that he stood from his position. He was alone now. A blessing in and of itself. The candles were blown out. The incense gone from the tables. Even the sisters scurried away, off to sing their songs of praise somewhere he couldn't hear. If his surroundings were always this peaceful after prayers and breakdowns, then perhaps he'd do it more often.
Tōshirō left without another look back.
After countless self-reprimands and deprecating remarks of motivation, he finally found himself standing before two double doors made of solid wood, four inches thick. Of course Kuchiki Byakuya would be able to get his dear sister the most expensive, most stable looking room within this crumbling excuse of a once grand Fourth Division clinic. He was barely able to push one of the doors open without wincing.
Once he slipped inside, Tōshirō was happy to find a chair already prepared for him to fall into. Almost as if Byakuya had known he'd come. Perhaps he did. With the way some injured members of the Sixth Division watched him, he couldn't discount the possibility of the elder Kuchiki keeping tabs on him. The chair was positioned by the window at the far end, but the room was small enough for him to be close to everything. Tōshirō stared at the sun through the window, burning its way ever upward. There were no clouds in sight. He wasn't particularly enthused by that. It made the room too loud, too cheerful, too... everything.
Tōshirō turned to look at Rukia's face instead. He exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding at the sight of her. She looked as if only a few scant hopes held her together, but she was all right. Drained, yes. Vulnerable, definitely. But safe. More so now that he was here.
She'd live. He knew she would.
Rukia had gone through worse.
"You're too stubborn to die," he muttered, while staring at the wrinkle between her brows. Tōshirō resisted the urge to step forward and smooth it out with his thumb. "Don't worry. So am I."
Tōshirō observed her for a long while after that. He was enraptured. Like she was an inconceivable shaft of light deep below ground where nothing but his demons were allowed. He called her name. It glided from his lips, before he even realized what he was doing. When Rukia shifted to face him—like she could hear him calling her—fire bloomed in his chest. Her face smoothed over, and the thought of her being so utterly relaxed in his presence gladdened him.
Her comfort almost made him jealous. Tōshirō scowled in petty resentment at her ease, but it didn't last long because watching her like this was a balm to the stone-cold fury that sat in his stomach for Soul Society's many enemies.
Keeping her in sight had become an odd necessity over the years. He didn't know when exactly it happened, but she had become a constant in his life. An anchor throughout the times he needed it most. The thought of her by his side reassured him in ways he didn't think possible.
Tōshirō's feet moved of their own accord, carrying him closer to her. Rukia didn't stir again. Not even when the chair scraped loudly against the ground, making him wince and nervously look over. He traced an aimless path along the back of her hand, taking care to hold her just firm enough to reassure himself. She had suffered so many injuries already. He'd be damned if he was the cause of another.
Once he was satisfied, his hand fell back to his side.
Soul Society might have been destroyed—again—but at least she was all right. Because when it came down to it, he felt most at home when he was by her side.
The thought stung more than he liked, considering how much he valued his independence. And the idea alone was alternately daunting and draining, but Tōshirō was glad for it all the same. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, content in the knowledge that she'd still be there when he opened them again.
They had survived another war. How many did this make now? Tōshirō was too tired to count. But he let the thought drift away with a satisfied grin. There was no use dwelling over fights that had already passed. He needed to face the future, particularly the one that he had with the woman sound asleep before him.
Drained by the short walk to her room, Tōshirō leaned forward so that his head knocked against her shoulder. Rukia didn't even move, so he took that as a sign that she'd be asleep for a while. He looked forward to the moment when he could see her face brighten once more at the sight of him.
A/N: Please review.
